I Told You
by BlinkingAngel
Summary: A new case comes in, but this one hits a little close to home. *warning: character death*
1. Shock

**A/N: I feel kind of bad just for having this idea, but I felt that it would make a good, if not somewhat decent story. So here it is, enjoy!**

**I do not own the geniusly brilliant and brilliantly genius works of either Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Steven Moffat.**

The first and only time Sherlo_c_k Holmes showed _a_ny kind o_f_ emot_i_on, aside from misplac_e_d excitement, in all the time that Doctor Watson knew him was one autumn e_v_ening when Lestrade came by Baker street. As usual, Sherl_o_ck had been qui_t_e bored for a few weeks prior. He was s_t_aring out the wind_o_w at Lestrade's lone police cruiser when Mrs. Hudson escor_t_ed the DI into the flat. He looked nervous, wringing h_i_s hands and staring at his _s_hoes.

"Plea_s_e tell me you have a new cas_e_," Sherlock said while t_u_rning to face the detect_i_ve. "what's happened?" he asked, decid_i_ng what his demeanor had to do with the _n_ew case.

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, "_I_ think you'd better just come, this o_n_e hits a bit clo_s_e to home."

_S_herlock furrowed his brow, quickly grabbing up his coat and scarf, and followed out the door, Watson close on his h_e_els.

John knew that something was ho_r_ribly wro_n_g the minute that Sherlock got in the police car. The ride to the crime scene was particularly tense and quiet. Sherlock had an unexplained, unpleasant feeling that something _v_ery bad had happened. He hated the not knowing, but judging by Lestrade's behavior, he knew that it was best to just find out in time.

The cruiser pulled up to a seemingly benevolent street with a bit of crime scene tape blocking off an alleyway. The buildings to either side and people crowding around concealed the body undoubtedly left there. Sherlock bolted out of the car and started towards the end of the alleyway and the crowd split at the si_g_ht of him. A bad sign indeed. The cl_o_ser he got, the stronger that unpleasant feeling got. He coul_d_ now classify it: dr_ea_d.

Step by step, he slowed. The body bec_a_me _c_learer and clearer as he _g_ot closer and _e_ventually, he was standing di_r_ectly over it. His eyes purposely skimmed up from the ma_n_'s expensive-look_i_ng shoes, his designer trousers and sleek yet worn bla_c_k jacket (fresh _g_asoline stain on the left side of the chest), and finally up to the face.

She_r_l_o_ck ha_d_ recognized the man from the moment he saw the _b_ody, f_a_ce up on the pavement. Even so, the _s_hock did_n_'t _r_eally strike him until he laid _e_yes o_n_ the pale, drai_n_ed face. H_e_ was rendered speechless st_a_ring down at the corpse as Les_t_rade and John came up behind him.

_F_irst came John, he stopped short as soon as he saw the man, a barely audible "Oh my _g_od," _e_scaped his mouth.

Lestrade sauntered up shortl_y_ aft_e_r. "I'm so _s_orry."

The detective said nothing, fu_t_ilely searching for his usual stony emotional mask to cover the shock. He simply stared down at the pale face of Mycroft Holmes, whose eyes were set in a blank stare straight upwards.

Sherlock eventually tore his own eyes away from the face of his _d_ead brother and decided that he had a job to do, and he had a h_u_nch. "Has anyone g_ot_ a ma_t_ch?" he said, n_o_ sign of a quiver in his a voice. He spun on his heel, looking for an answer. Lestra_d_e p_u_lled out a matchbook and handed on_e_ to him. He crouched over the chest and struck the match on the pavement. Thou_g_h surely the who_l_e crowd was confused, no one would da_r_e question _h_im at the _m_oment. If there was one thing Sherlock knew about his brother, it's that he would never go near any type of grime, especially not in his good s_u_it.

He gentl_y_ brought the f_l_ame over the stain on Mycroft's chest, it quickly lit up. Sherlock stood back and looked over the inevitable clue: a _c_apital 'J' connected to a capital 'M' in flames over Mycroft's heart, confirming all of their worst f_e_ars.

"It's Moriarty."

**A/N2: Another chapter to come. I'm not making any promises that it will be updated soon though seeing as I still have Shadow Puppets to write. Please please PLEASE review!**

**P.S. I've woven a secret message into this chapter. It's double encoded with a cipher. I may do this with all the chapters, but never the same kind. Good luck and PM me if you find it!**


	2. Revenge

A/N: This is the last chapter of I Told You. I know, quite short. I may as well have made it a one-shot, but oh well. I like leaving readers on a cliffhanger (mwahaha).  
>I unfortunately do not own Sherlock and claim no rights to the genius of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Steven Moffat.<p>

"So what do you plan to do?" John asked his flat mate after an hour or so of silent pacing. What was previously shock had now melted into vengeful rage. Sherlock didn't respond. He had been debating that same question himself. There was just the matter of contact.

Eventually, he broke away from his constant path in order to rummage through the layers of clutter covering his desk. He searched through crime scene pictures, case files, miscellaneous experiment notes, a petrified liver in a bag, and finally found what he was looking for: a new, pink smart phone. Nearly identical to Jennifer Wilson's. Sherlock flipped through the recent calls, all from the same blocked caller. All from Moriarty. It took only a few minutes of finagling to retrieve the number. He sent a text that read simply: "You know where to meet me. 22:00. Come alone.  
>SH"<p>

Sherlock went back to his pacing and did not stop until it was time to face the cause of his unrest. John stirred when Sherlock stopped pacing.

"Where're you going?" he asked as Sherlock donned his coat and scarf.

The consulting detective continued around the flat as if he hadn't heard him. To the doctor's surprise, Sherlock produced a hand gun from the cushions of his favorite chair. This was enough to conclude: "You're going to meet Moriarty, aren't you?"

Finally, after several hours of silence, Sherlock spoke, a dangerous undertone to his voice. "Yes, and you would do well not to follow me."

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" John took the lack of response and movement as an affirmative. "Don't stoop to his level." was the last bit that Watson could fit in before Sherlock disappeared out the door.

Those words echoed in the vengeful genius's ears as he hailed a cab, waited out the car ride, and walked up to the familiar building. Even so, he never once doubted his intentions. He knew exactly where to go; it was like a living flashback, right down to the weight of the revolver concealed in his coat pocket.

Shortly, Sherlock found himself standing in the same exact spot as before. At the pool. And, as expected, Jim Moriarty appeared from the opposite end of the room.

"You're alone?" Sherlock asked before proceeding.

"Hello to you too." Moriarty, one never to ignore formalities, responded with a hint of faux offense. He started to slowly walk towards Sherlock, looking pleased with himself. "Yes, I'm alone. No snipers, just me."

Sherlock answered with a tense nod. He slowly pulled the hand gun out of his pocket. "You killed Mycroft. An innocent man, and you killed him just to spite me."

Jim seemed not at all phased by the gun. "Why, yes. I did. Personally as a matter of fact. You see after so long trying to not get my hands dirty I'd almost forgotten how much fun it is." He continued to saunter slowly forwards as he spoke.

"So," Sherlock said between his teeth as he raised the gun to point at Moriarty's head, "what's to stop me from killing you right now?"

"You couldn't do it," the other man venomously spit, though he had stopped advancing as soon as the gun was pointed at him, "you don't have the guts."

"You're wrong. I could shoot you dead right now. But you don't deserve it. Killing you would be a mercy. You should live with what you've done."

"Ahh, but the problem is, I don't regret what I've done. I look back on all of those lives with pleasure." he grinned a horrible, sadistic grin. "Besides, I told you."

"Told me what?"

Moriarty leant more and more forward and his grin grew wider and wider as he spoke until he took on a dangerously maniac expression. "That I would burn you. And that's just what I'm doing. I'm burning the heart out of you. Bit. By. Bit!" He suddenly burst into what must have been a laugh. It was surely the most unsettling, nightmare-inducing sound ever produced.

Finally, he could take it no longer. A single gunshot echoed through the empty pool, silencing the maniacal laughter for good. As if in slow motion, Sherlock watched Moriarty's head jerk back as the bullet came in contact with his skull. He saw the man fall to his knees and fold backwards in an awkward position.

Sherlock's face settled into a stony mask as he shoved the gun back into his pocket and walked away. He didn't look back, he didn't regret, just walked away. He kept walking when he heard the sirens pulling up to the scene. He went home and didn't say a word, because there was nothing left to be said, nothing left to be felt, because although his revenge was satisfactory, it didn't change the fact that Mycroft was still dead. And he still had a permanent JM burned into his heart.

A/N2: I just read back through this and am currently worrying for my own mental stability. Oh well, I guess you have to get in touch with your inner insanity to write Moriarty. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the story and, as always, please review!

-BAngel


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